


Dear Jim, Please Will You Fix It For Me?

by ravyn_nevermore



Series: OTP: The Black Pearl [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Jim is protective, Jim is the hero this time, John Watson is still a piece of shit, M/M, Non-Graphic Depictions of Rape, Physical Abuse - implied, Physical hurt/comfort, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Sexual Abuse, abusive!John, rapist!John, victim!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-10-29 19:53:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 5,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10860936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravyn_nevermore/pseuds/ravyn_nevermore
Summary: Sherlock has faced the ultimate betrayal of trust. He never thought this could happen to him. He never thought it would. And if it did, it certainly wouldn't be his best friend. What can he do? Who can he turn to? Who can he trust now?





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I'm not looking for hate or a ship war. With all of the JL stories centered around Moriarty being a rapist (for whatever reason) and John being the white knight, I decided to turn that on its head. What if John took advantage and Sherlock had no one to turn to but his "rival"?

What a long week. And it had started out so promising: murders, deceptions, kidnappings, more murders. But by the week’s end, Sherlock was bored. Horribly, insufferably, disgustingly bored.

Where the hell was the Napoleon of Crime when Sherlock needed him? No game, no puzzle, no riddle. Not even a joke or a poem. Moriarty wasn't even annoying him with texts or hidden messages. That wasn't even remotely fair! Sherlock was the one who did the ignoring!

The consulting detective took to pouting and pining- not that he'd admit to such a thing- with a glass of Bombay Sapphire and a needle full of heroin. He made himself at home on the sofa, pleasantly high and drunk and meandering through his mind palace.

Hours pass and the sun sets. Half of the bottle of gin is gone and Sherlock weaves between bliss and drowsiness, nearly dozing off a few times. He's moved from the sofa, to the kitchen for refills, to his chair, to the window, and back to the sofa. Sherlock is dozing off again when John comes home from work, but the door closing behind the doctor startles him into bolting upright.

“I don't have any! Hm? Oh. John. It's you. Fine. Hello. Whatever.” Sherlock flops back onto the sofa and finishes his neglected, now-lukewarm glass of gin. “Home early. Date bad? Not surprised.”

John rolls his eyes and shrugs. “We just… didn't click I suppose.” He hangs his coat, fighting the urge to complain about Sherlock drinking. He clears his throat and resorts to complaining about his date, eventually sighing, “Five dates in two months and I can't even get a proper song much less a bed partner.”

Sherlock snorts. “Man of my dreams has been ignoring me so at least you've got something.” His eyes widen briefly before closing. “What? Nevermind me. It's the gin. Aaaannnnnddd heroin.” He snorts again and lets out an amused laugh.

John narrows his eyes at his flatmate. “Right.” He purses his lips thoughtfully and then goes to scoop Sherlock off the sofa and help him into the bedroom. “Well. The way I see it. You help me out, I'll help you out.”

Sherlock wasn't sure what that meant but he had an uneasy feeling about the tone of John's voice and the fact that he was still in the bedroom after the door was shut.

Thanks to the heroin and copious amount of gin in his system, Sherlock dozes off- nearly blacks out- as soon as his back hits the mattress. He's vaguely aware of someone's lips on his own, but he's too out of it to do anything but furrow his brow in confusion.

He gains just a bit more consciousness as his trousers and pants are sliding off of his body. “John?! What are you--?”

“Shh. Like I said: you help me, I'll help you. Just relax.”


	2. Chapter Two

Sherlock wakes with the sunlight. Hard not to when it’s streaming straight into his face from the window. He groans and tries to pull the covers up over his head, but they're caught. Confused, he sits up and looks around. He sees blonde hair sticking out from under the duvet beside him. 

Panic tears through him, breaking through his hungover haze. He sits bolt upright and realizes he's naked from the waist down. And sticky. And sore. He looks himself over, finding bruises on his arms, his hips, his thighs. He doesn't notice John stirring and waking beside him.

“Morning.” That voice sends a chill down Sherlock's spine, turning his blood to ice. He turns to face John- who is now sitting up- and see that he's not wearing a shirt. Oh no. 

Bits of the previous night come flooding back and Sherlock tightens his grip on the duvet. He remembers being drunk and high. He remembers John coming home from a failed date. He remembers ‘You help me and I'll help you’. He remembers thin, rough lips kissing him but not kissing back. And then he remembers pain. And pressure. So much pressure. He doesn't remember asking for anything. Or even so much as flirting.

“John,” he starts slowly, “did we…? Did you…?”

“God, yes. I needed that. And so did you. Man of your dreams isn't ignoring you anymore, is he?”

Sherlock pales. “John, I… I didn't mean-- I didn't want--”

“Of course you did. Who else? Besides. You enjoyed it. Hard as a rock and I've never seen someone come so hard. You're quieter than I like but no big deal.”

“John! John, I was drunk and physical, instinctual response doesn't mean-”

“Oh god. Don't start trying to scientifically explain it. Just be quiet and let's enjoy round two, hmm?”

Fear paralyzes Sherlock as strong hands push him back onto the mattress. He doesn't know what to do. He squeezes his eyes shut as he feels John’s weight on top of him, pinning him down by the arms, hard enough to create more bruises. The detective squirms, trying to get away. 

“Easy, Sherlock. You'll get it soon enough.”

“No!”

“More eager in the morning aren't you?”

“NO!”

Sherlock squirms and thrashes more, trying to get the man off of him, but John is strong. He pushes at him, but it turns into a scuffle. Such a mix of fear, anger, and hurt fills Sherlock that he's fighting back tears. He just wants to get out of this. It hurts. Everything hurts.


	3. Chapter Three

Tears streaming, Sherlock barely made it out of the bedroom. He hastily tugged on a pair of sweat pants, ripped his coat from the rack, and ran from 221B, leaving his phone and keys- and a violently angry John Watson- behind.

_Think, Sherlock. Think. Mrs Hudson? No. She's in Bromley visiting a friend. The police? No._

He knows how they handle the rape of females. It would be worse for him. He can't go to Mycroft. Molly? Greg? What if they don't believe him? John doesn't look like a rapist. He doesn't look abusive. Everyone knows him as John Watson, veteran and mild-mannered doctor. Not John Watson, violent rapist and assailant.

Sherlock frantically flags down the first cab that he sees and gets into the back. He gives vague directions, staring out the window. There's only one person left who might even come close to helping him. He glances in the cab’s rearview mirror and sees his own bloodied nose and split lip amongst the other bruises on his face. He dissolves into sobs, burying his face in his hands.

John was supposed to be his best friend. The person he trusted most. How could he?


	4. Chapter Four

Well before his alarm goes off, there's a knock on the door of James Moriarty's Kensington maisonette. He stirs and rolls over, hoping that whoever it is will bugger off and allow him his beauty sleep.

The knock repeats itself and a grumpy Irishman stretches out his arm and checks the time on his phone. _Christ, it's not even nine o’clock yet. Go away._

He sinks further down in his plush mattress and pulls the covers over his head. He yawns and closes his eyes again.

**Thump. Thump. Thump.**  
_**Bangbangbangbangbangbang.** _

Silence.

_That sounded urgent. Have they given up? Died?_ Jim groans and pushes himself out of bed. At least he doesn't have nosey neighbours.

Moriarty yawns yet again as he stands up, pulling on his dressing gown since it wasn't really acceptable to answer the door in pants and socks. He scratches at his bedhead and stubble as he shuffles toward the door and peeks through the peephole, hoping no one was on the other side and he could immediately go back to sleep for the next two hours.

Confused when he sees nothing but blackness, he unlocks the door and opens it slowly. He wasn't expecting to be met with Sherlock's back. Jim squints, bleary-eyes, up at the detective’s head. “So you've found where I live. Couldn't you come at a more reasonable hour?”

“No. It was urgent.”

Another yawn. “What do you mean”

“Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me?”

Those aren't words James ever expected to hear Sherlock utter again and especially not so solemnly. He is about to ask something else when Sherlock turns to face him and his self-proclaimed black heart stops. 


	5. Chapter Five

Even as they sit in Jim's living room- Sherlock lying on the sofa with a cold rag on his bloodied face and Jim waiting patiently to hear what he has to say- the shock of finding Sherlock battered and bloodied at his door hasn't worn off.

Everything they did was a game, a puzzle, a way to stay entertained, a way to seek each other's attention. Murder flirting, one might call it. Jim never wanted Sherlock to actually come to any physical harm. He will find who did this and make them pay. He sets aside the upcropping ideas for revenge and just tries to focus on Sherlock, patiently waiting for his testimony.

Finally, Sherlock draws a shaky breath. “I know it's… unusual for me to ask for help. Particularly from you--”

“It doesn't matter. I can't fix it if you don't tell me who did this to you.”

Sherlock is quiet for a while again. His voice quivers as he finally admits, “It was… John.”

Jim tenses visibly, his left hand clenching hard enough to turn his knuckles white. He wasn't surprised but that didn't make him less furious. Finally. A good excuse to murder the man. He doesn't say anything just yet as it is obvious that Sherlock wants to say more but is working up the courage.

“I was… drunk… and high last night because--” Sherlock shakes his head. It doesn't matter. “He came home. His date had gone poorly. I remember him saying ‘you help me and I'll help you’. I don't remember much else but a kiss and… a lot of pressure. Physical pressure. When I woke this morning, he was lying in my bed beside me. Naked. I was naked from the waist down and bruised. I felt sticky. When he woke, I asked him if we had... if he had… and he said yes. He claimed I enjoyed it but I couldn't have. I don't remember a thing. I didn't make a single pass at him. I didnt want sex with him so I certainly didn't say so. Then he tried to force himself on me. I said no. Twice. He pinned me down. He's short but he's strong. And dense. I struggled to push him off. It's all a blur but I know he struck me twice in the face. I don't know how I got free. I grabbed these joggers and my coat and left. He shouted some sort of threat at me. Threw something. Mrs Hudson wasn't home. I can't go to Mycroft. I can't go to the police and I don't think anyone else would believe me. So I came here. Everyone would think I'm insane for coming here but I knew you could help if you wanted to. I knew I would be safe. This is the last place he'd look for me.”

Jim listens to every word Sherlock has to say. He doesn't relax even a little. In fact, he tenses more. His vision goes red. He can hear his blood pounding in his ears. He swallows hard. “I see. Will you… excuse me a moment?”

He gets up and calmly walks down the hallway, closing his bedroom door gently. The maisonette is silent until…

_**Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam!** _

Poor Sherlock flinches with each gunshot.

Moriarty has emptied the entire clip of his handgun into a decorative pillow. Again: thank god for no neighbours.

 


	6. Chapter Six

When Jim returns from his bedroom, a couple of pillow feathers are clinging to his dressing gown. He brushes them off and sits on the coffee table, across from Sherlock. “My sincerest apologies. I needed to… let off some steam.”

“It's… fine. I didn't know you'd be so angry. I don't think I've seen ever you angry at all.”

“I have zero tolerance for rapists. I have even less tolerance for John Watson. And contrary to popular belief, I've never wanted you to come to harm. Not once. Not even for a second. This situation is a bit… personal, I'm afraid.”

Sherlock looks at Jim for a long while. If he didn't know better, it almost sounds like Moriarty cares about him. He swallows hard and looks away. He can dream, right?

“Anyway. I assure you the issue will be dealt with promptly and accordingly.”

Sherlock nods and sits up. “Thank you. I'll see to it that you're paid whatever amount you ask. I should be going.”

“No, don't,” Jim says a little too quickly he clears his throat. “I mean, you don't have to. In fact, you shouldn't. You're welcome to my shower and my bed.  And the satisfaction of making Watson pay for what he did to you is payment enough. You said it yourself: you're safe here and it's the last place he'll look for you. I'll show you to the bathroom and-if you're feeling up to eating- I'll make a light breakfast.”

The Irishman stands and offers his hand to Sherlock. There's a still and quiet moment before Sherlock places his hand into Jim's. 


	7. Chapter Seven

No matter how hot the water was or how much he scrubbed, Sherlock couldn't remove the filthy violated feeling. In some places, he's scrubbed himself raw and is bleeding.

Jim had lent him an old T-shirt that is just a bit too short and tight in the arms and a pair of joggers that are snug and stop above the ankle. That’s the unfortunate thing about their size difference but at least he has clean clothes even temporarily. Sherlock shuffles from the bathroom, following the smell of omelettes into the kitchen.

When he sees Sherlock enter, Moriarty takes his attention from the stove and looks him over. As soon as he sees that Sherlock has scrubbed himself raw, his icy heart breaks. He turns off the burner, gently takes the taller man by the hand, and leads him back into the bathroom, cleaning and dressing his wounds without a word of judgement.

Sherlock watches Jim in silence. It's been years since anyone has touched him with such care. And Sherlock can see the care in those brown eyes, right behind the look of concentration, temporarily replacing the earlier look of unbridled rage. Sherlock has never felt so safe in his life. And to be in the compassionate company of someone he loves…

Yes, loves. Jim is- unfortunately- someone Sherlock loves. Very much so. Damned chemical defect. He didn't know when it happened or why, but it had. It could be any combination of things, really.

Before the attack, Sherlock had hope. Maybe someday, James Moriarty could be persuaded to love him. Even a little. But that was ruined by someone Sherlock had trusted, had considered a friend. No one would ever want him now. How could they?

When he's finished dressing Sherlock's wounds, Jim looks up at him. They lock eyes for a moment and two deeply neglected hearts skip beats. It’s simultaneous when they look away from each other and choose to exit the bathroom. What a stupid, inopportune time to be in love and without the pretense of a game. 


	8. Chapter Eight

Sherlock is surprised to find omelettes are for breakfast. _This is Jim's idea of light cooking?_ It doesn't matter, though. He doesn't have much of an appetite, but the few bites he does take to stave off hunger pains are exquisite.

The silence in which they eat- well, Jim eats and Sherlock pushes his food around- is neither companionable nor awkward. It simply _is_.

Jim sips his coffee, regarding Sherlock over the edge of the ceramic mug. “After breakfast, you have two options. You can come with me while I buy you new clothes or I can have my best employee come round if you'd feel safer here and I'll still go buy you new clothes.”

“Jim, I can't let you-”

“Nope. That wasn't an option. I'm buying you new clothes. If I solve this problem in the time I plan to, you'll have new clothes to keep when you return home. If it takes longer than I want- as sometimes they unfortunately do, but you can't rush art- then you'll have clothes to get you through your stay here. I hope this will be a sanctuary for you. I promise no harm will come to you here. I'm certainly not going to make you return to Baker Street for any reason.”

“But I left my phone--”

“Good. We don't want him trying to trace it. I'll buy you a new one of those as well.”

“...My violin-”

“Sherlock, anything you need or want, I'll buy for you. Even if it's only temporary.”

Sherlock is quiet for a while. Great. So now he's damaged goods _and_ a charity case. Could he be any more worthless?

“I… will stay here. I think I'll go lie down for a while. Please excuse me.”

Jim frowns and watches him walk down the hall to the bedroom. Was it something he said?

Sherlock curls up in the large platform bed, staying on top of the covers and hugging a pillow. It smells like Jim and Sherlock finds it comforting. He manages to doze off a bit.

After cleaning up from the meal, Moriarty quietly slips into the bedroom. He covers Sherlock with the duvet, gathers some clothes, and slips out again.

Dressed for the day, he phones Sebastian and makes him agree to keep watch over Sherlock. Even with Sebastian being his best and most-trusted employee, Jim still feels worried when he leaves home. _Sherlock will be fine with Moran_ , he tells himself over and over again.


	9. Chapter Nine

Sherlock had forgotten where he was briefly upon dozing off. After lying awake for a moment, it comes back to him. He ventures from the bedroom to see if Jim has yet returned. Instead, he's met with Sebastian Moran. Blonde and former military. That's enough in common to put Sherlock on edge. The man is taller, though and younger.

Basher regards the disheveled and battered detective in silence and leaves him alone. Sherlock detects jealousy in that brief glance, but why?

Moments later, Sherlock nearly jumps out of his skin when the front door opens. It's just Jim, however, laden with shopping bags. He smiles warmly at Sherlock and removes his sunglasses as he closes the door behind himself. “Sleep well?”

Sherlock blushes and looks away. “Yes, thank you.” Why does Jim have to be so disarmingly beautiful when he smiles? And comforting.

Jim looks at Sebastian. “Thanks for keeping him safe. Staying for tea?” Basher simply shakes his head and leaves without a word.

Jim sets the bags down and goes into the kitchen, setting the kettle to boil. “Come on. Let's go to the bedroom and I'll show you what I bought for you. It's enough to last a month. Just in case.”

Sherlock feels his heart stumble. A month alone with Jim? He doesn't know if his feelings can handle it. He's supposed to be forcing himself _out_ of love. This won't be conducive to that at all. 


	10. Chapter Ten

As the days pass, Sherlock's wounds heal. The physical ones, anyway. Staying with Jim has actually helped begin to heal his emotional ones as well.

Jim is much kinder than Sherlock had anticipated. Only to him, though. With people who deliver food when he's too tired to cook, he's merely polite. With clients, he's cold, stern, and proper. But with Sherlock, always kindness. It's fascinating really. He always feeds Sherlock, always keeps a comfortable distance. The clothes he bought fit perfectly. Jim continues to sleep on the sofa and allow Sherlock his bed. Sometimes, he'll play piano for him. He doesn't even mind when Sherlock wants to just lie around and watch crap telly.

Sherlock even thinks Jim looks… happy when he's not working. He certainly seems to enjoy when Sherlock plays violin (also brand new and purchased by Moriarty), even when it's a melancholy tune.

Sherlock almost forgets that he's not meant to stay here for good. He almost wants to continue like this. But he's reminded that it will end soon when Jim presents him a black file folder over lunch halfway into the third week. The detective looks at it, knowing already what it is, but neither speaking nor moving. In any other circumstance, he might have been thrilled. A peek into the mind and method of James Moriarty, consulting criminal.

After a long moment of silence, Jim licks his lips and says, “As long as you're still absolutely certain that you want me to solved this problem of yours, open that file. You'll need to confirm the information provided and sign off on it. Then, you'll need to accept or deny the solution and sign off on that as well. Once you have done that, there's no changing your mind. Do you understand?”

The detective swallows hard and nods. With shaky fingers, he opens the file folder. The photograph of John staring back at him makes his stomach turn. He ignores it and reads the profile information to which it is attached. He turns the paper upside down and sets it aside, reading the write up of the request and problem. It's correct, of course, and extremely well-written. Sherlock takes the pen clipped to the edge of the folder and signs off on that.

The last paper details the solution to the problem. It's not pleasant, but it is well-thought out. Sherlock feels his heart and stomach both sink like lead stones. He stares, unseeing, at the paper for a good while, then glances up at Jim. He takes a deep breath and moves the pen over the paper.

Just like that, Sherlock Holmes has signed the death warrant of John Watson. 


	11. Chapter Ten And A Half

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Requested: Jim's feelings about Sherlock staying with him, basically just the mirror of the last chapter

Having Sherlock in his home, seemed to fill a void that Moriarty had long tried to ignore. It was much less lonely and sad.

Jim loved having someone to cook for other than himself. He loved being able to show off his pianist skills a bit. He loved being able to converse over a meal instead of just thinking far too much. More than anything he just loved… well, Sherlock. He loved listening to him play his violin even when the notes broke his heart. He loved watching him enthralled with some stupid programme on telly. He loved watching smoke outline his curls as they enjoyed cigarettes in companionable silence on the rooftop terrace. He loved watching him tousle his damp hair after a shower. He didn't love sacrificing his bed and sleeping on the sofa, but it was worth it. Sherlock was worth it.

It was like a dream come true when he had all the information he needed to start planning the solution to Sherlock's problem. At last, he'd have good reason to kill John Watson and see him rot in the ground. Of course the plan was meticulous, every gory detail written in black and white. He was excited. And Sherlock could be liberated.

When he presented John's file to Sherlock over dinner, he waited patiently- but with bated breath. He knew it wasn't an easy decision for Sherlock to make. He watched him read it with great care and sign off of the first section. Good. That was easy.

Sherlock made eye contact with him after he read the detailed solution. Jim half-expected him to run at that point, but he didn't. He signed the paper, closed the file and pushed it back across the table. So that was it then. It was done.

“Sherlock. Are you alright?”

“I will be. When will this be done?”

“As soon as possible. I'm putting my best men on it first thing in the morning.”

“I see. Will you… please excuse me?”

Jim watched Sherlock fade away into the bedroom. He only wished he knew how to better comfort the detective. 


	12. Chapter Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for taking so long to update. I was at Sherlocked USA this past weekend. I was busy falling deeper in love with Andrew Scott and letting him fuel the Sheriarty flames in my soul.

Jim was absolutely furious when John managed to evade being killed. He wasn't clever enough to escape, he was just lucky. Jim fired every man that had been put to the task and locked himself in his bedroom for at least an hour.

Sherlock heard crashing, banging, and gunshots, flinching less than he had just weeks ago. Still, he knew to give Moriarty space to calm down.

“Now I have to reformulate the entire plan,” James snarls as he returns from the bedroom. He storms up to the terrace with a pack of cigarettes and his phone, calling for one of his remaining lackeys to come and clean up his mess and bring a new mirror, mattress, lamps, and pillows.

Timidly, a consulting detective follows him up and tries to play a bit of music on his violin, hoping it will help calm the man a bit.

“Not fucking now,” Moriarty barks a bit louder than he should, leaving Sherlock a bit shaken up.

Immediately, Jim realizes his mistake and whirls around. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. An apology is worthless, but I honestly didn't think first. I just-”

“It's fine,” Sherlock cuts him off abruptly. “I forgive you.” But he immediately turns tail and retreats indoors. Jim has never felt such guilt.

* * *

 

The remainder of the afternoon is relatively quiet: half due to guilt, Half due to fear. Either way, Jim’s room has been straightened up and replaced.

When asked if he'd like takeaway or for Jim to cook dinner, Sherlock just shrugs silently. Jim resigns to ordering Halal and opening a bottle of wine. So: a quiet dinner it will be, then. 


	13. Chapter Thirteen - The End

A quiet dinner was all either of them was expecting. Until Jim hears a stair creak outside. He knows the way those stairs creaked under his own weight as well as under the weight of each of his employees. He knows clients are required to call ahead of time. He’s supposed to be hidden to anyone searching for him. That creak was unfamiliar, but he has an inkling.

Gently, he lays his spoon onto his plate. “Sherlock. Go into the bedroom a moment, will you?”

Sherlock heard it too, but doesn't have the knowledge of the stairs here that Jim has. “It's not someone you know?”

“No, it isn't. Go now and lock the door. Don't move until I come to get you.”

Sherlock disappears quickly, panic in his eyes. The door closes quietly and Jim hears it lock.

He stands up and clears the table, just in time for there to come a banging on the front door. He creeps calmly across the floor to answer it.

As soon as the door is open, Jim finds himself staring down the barrel of a very familiar British Army Browning L9-A1. Of course.

“I'm not going to bother to ask how you found me, Johnny Boy, because…”

“Mycroft said his CCTV caught Sherlock coming in here nearly a month ago but never coming out.”

“... I don't care how.” Jim scoffs. “Well he's certainly not here. Why would he be with his mortal enemy?” A smirk crosses the Irishman's face. “Come inside and you'll see.” He steps back, leading John inside and slamming the door.

* * *

 

Meanwhile, Sherlock is huddled in the far corner of Moriarty's bedroom, trembling in terror at hearing John's voice. How did he find him? He was supposed to be safe here!

* * *

 

John walks unwittingly in front of Moriarty, glancing around the maisonette. He slowly lowers his gun. “So show me the rest.”

“I'm afraid I can't do that.”

“Why the fuck not?” John rounds on Moriarty, flushed angrily.

“You don't have a warrant, I protect my clients, and I don't like rapists being within 300 meters of me, my property, and anything or anyone I might happen to care about.”

“You're a psychopath. You don't care about anything or anyone, especially Sherlock.”

“That's where you’re wrong. Besides, how would you know? It's not like you care about him, is it?”

“Why else would I be here?”

“To reclaim what you believe is your property. To finish what you started. You're here under the guise of a rescue mission, but you haven't had enough have you? Come to ruin him some more?”

Sherlock curls in on himself as he tries to listen to the conversation. Maybe Jim is distracting John so he can escape? No. He hears a scuffle, weight falling, blows landing, and finally, a gun shot. He gasps and breaks down into sobs.

_Not Jim. Please not Jim._

He hears another thud, followed by approaching footsteps. He doesn't know who is coming for him. He might be dead in the next minute.

The knob jostles briefly, then a soothing Irish voice, “Sherlock, you can open the door. You're safe. I promise.”

Filled with relief, Sherlock wipes his face and scrambles to the door. He jerks it open to find Jim a bit battered and splattered with blood. He doesn't care, he throws himself at Jim and sobs into his shoulder.

“You're okay. You're okay. You're safe. He can't hurt you anymore.” James rubs his back a bit, soothingly.

Sherlock sniffles. “Jim… Jim, I thought I lost you. And that would have been awful because…”

“...because he would have-”

“...because I love you, James.”

Moriarty tenses briefly, then relaxes and embraces Sherlock, closing his eyes. “I know. I know you do. I… love… you, too…”


	14. Afterword

Hello readers.

I don't expect many of you to read this since it isn't an actual continuation of the story, but one giant author’s note.

I've addressed some of this in the comments and in the author’s note in the first chapter, but I'd like to put everything in one place.

To start off, I never imagined the response this fanfic would get. Hence why comment moderation is on. I didn't think it was the first of its kind. BUT I HOPE SEE MORE! We're all tired of the rapist!Jim, savior!John trope invading our tag. We're all tired of previous!Sheriarty, endgame!JL invading our tag. Now, I did consider putting it in the JL tag with *noncon* in the same tag, but decided to not stoop to their level.

I used to be a JL shipper. But I was NEVER part of JLEG or TJLC. Those are psychotic, toxic, harmful people that I want nothing to do with. I always shipped Jimlock but as an aside thing. JL was my OTP. Then, I had a bad experience because of it and it opened my eyes to how toxic that relationship would be. Since becoming a full-time Sheriarty OTP shipper, I've been on the receiving end of much abuse. Called delusional. Called a rape sympathizer. Called a murder sympathizer. Called psycho. The list goes on. And good god, what a stupid thing to fight over. I got into an argument with a friend because she insisted JL was still possible despite John’s violence in TLD because “head cradle hug”. Right. Sure. Okay. Abuse is fine as long as the victim hugs the abuser who is grieving the loss of their spouse. Sure. Not to mention John’s homophobic and acephobic attitude, trying to force a man who is clearly on the ace spectrum into a relationship with a LESBIAN.

Sorry. This isn't meant to be a rant. I got carried away.

Furthermore, I don't understand where rapist!Jim even comes from. It's almost like those people are watching a completely different show.

No matter what I've shipped, I've always maintained that Sherlock needed Jim. John is morphine. Jim is cocaine. But now I see that John is heroin. Sherlock thinks he needs him, but it's going to end badly. I can easily see John being the cause of Sherlock's death.

I liked John. Until season 3. I realized that he's the ultimate fuckboy. TAB made me full on hate him and Season 4 made me want him dead.

So I do what Jim does. I just fix problems. In all my fics and RPs, John gets locked up or killed for some act of violence. Mary is alive. Because I loved her. I still do. I think if Moriarty knew her he would have been fond of her as well. And Sherlock and Jim are always together. But it doesn't change how they work. Jim still creates puzzles. Sherlock still solves them.

The last thing I'm going to say is that I am humbled and honored by all of your compliments. I've always considered my writing to be relatively mediocre. Thanks for helping me to see maybe that's not the case. Maybe I do have a talent. My favorite comment to receive is whenever anyone compliments my characterization. It always makes me feel like I'm doing something right. And comments are a fic writer’s paycheck. Kudos are tips.

Please feel free to read my other works and stick around for works in the future. It's been a pleasure having you all. Thanks again.

With love  
Xoxo  
Kayla

PS: If you'd like to follow my Andrew Scott/Sheriarty/Sherlock blog, you can find me here: ([X](http://dr-davin-jamesgethin-mcgann.tumblr.com/)). 


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